


Getting Better

by apple931



Category: Splatoon
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, also autistic headcanons :), bc they are neurodivergent icons and i dont take criticism, rider is just not having a good time, thats right more gorai i have major brainrot sorry, tw for bullying, uhhhh backstory fic i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:33:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26732914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple931/pseuds/apple931
Summary: Some headcanon backstory.
Relationships: Goggles/Rider (Splatoon)
Kudos: 41





	Getting Better

He stood alone as the group of boys that were previously surrounded him went off to do things more worthwhile, wiping the tears from his eyes. He didn’t know what he did, he never had. All he knew is that they hated him, so they decided he was “weak” and “sensitive” for crying when he got punched in the face or kicked in the gut. He didn’t know how to make it stop, so he just stood there, listening to them. He was so used to their words by now that they just swam in one ear and out the other, not even affecting him anymore. They had already done their damage. He flinched when a drop of water hit his shoulder, stinging, as he realized there was a storm coming and he needed to head inside lest he end up a puddle on the sidewalk. He ran home, trying not to cry again. 

He used to be a talkative kid, always sharing his ideas and running around the house. He was always fascinated by his parents’ old turf weapons, to the point where they even let him take them apart and figure out how they tick. He used to excitedly explain everything he found out to his classmates while frantically waving his arms, and they all sat around him and listened intently. The new people were different, though. They didn’t like his enthusiasm, they didn’t like his dimples or the way he carried himself or how he smiled. So they opted to do something about it. Telling him to shut up whenever he started rambling, pointing out how stupid he looked when he smiled because of his dimples, calling him sensitive when he cried about it. The light in his eyes dulled, as he realized that he couldn’t carry himself like he was used to anymore, that he couldn’t laugh or cry or talk or be happy, because they didn’t want him to. And he didn’t want to make people angry. 

So eventually, he just stopped. For a couple years, he barely said a word to anyone, including his own family. He kept dissecting their old weapons and writing down the mechanisms inside them, but he didn’t frantically run down the stairs to show his mom a funky-looking part with a light in his eyes, or share his findings with his friends. He figured that if he wanted them to leave him alone, he had to stop doing the things that they talked about, that they mocked. He stopped waving his arms when he was happy, stopped smiling when he wasn’t alone, and refused to let himself cry, even in his own room, to the point where he kept knocking his fists against the sides of his head to get himself to shut up. 

But it was never enough. They still called him weak and sensitive, and instead of making fun of his liveliness, they made fun of his silence and how still he was and how his expression never changed. So, he figured there was one other thing he could try to do. Become strong. He found the heaviest weapon they had that was still in one piece, that being his mom’s old splat roller. It didn’t work anymore, but he could still fling it around the backyard and figure out how you were supposed to use the weapon. It was an old model, meaning that it couldn’t fling like he saw the squids on TV doing during turf matches, but he managed. He wanted to be like the turf war players on TV. They never got made fun of, they never got punched. They were strong. He needed to be strong too, otherwise he’d never be left alone. 

A few years down the line, and his parents had told him something. He was of age to start playing turf, so for his birthday they gave him a roller and a jacket he’d wanted since he was a kid. He got to go to the plaza, and play with all the strong people he had looked up to. He got to go away from the kids who beat him up and made fun of him. He was beyond excited, but he didn’t let himself show it. He made himself a checklist, determined that it would be different this time. He wouldn’t let himself be made fun of, because he wouldn’t do the things that would get him made fun of anymore. He also predicted one other thing that would get him made fun of, so he wrote that down as well. 

  * Don’t cry
  * Don’t laugh
  * Don’t show your excitement
  * Don’t fall in love



There was no way he could fail. After all, he had trained and practiced and researched. There was no way he could be weak in a turf war. And with his checklist and his experience, there was no way he’d be made fun of again. 

  
  


A couple years went by, and it was harder than he thought. The constant stream of noise from the plaza made him want to break down and cry sometimes, overwhelming him, the weapon shop and the new, stronger roller he got made him giddy, and sometimes he found himself idly waving his hands without realizing it when he was in a good mood. But he was desperate to keep it all down to a minimum. And it hurt. It made him irritable, jumpy. He managed to put up an intimidating persona to stifle it all, which also worked pleasantly well when it came to getting other people to leave him alone. 

But one day, it didn’t work. The boy was magnetic, he always found himself coming back, despite how annoying he found him and the chaos that came with. Well, more like the boy kept coming to him. It was… confusing. He wasn’t sure why he found him so tolerable, despite all of the things he usually despised about people. Impulsivity, lack of volume control, optimism. But, he noticed some things about him that he couldn’t help but find somewhat pleasant.. The way he hopped up and down and waved his arms when he was happy, the joy in his eyes when talking about things he liked, his smile, his enthusiasm. It reminded him of… someone. But he couldn’t put a pin on who. It made him feel oddly nostalgic. 

Eventually, that tolerance turned into fondness. He started to enjoy the time he spent with the other, hearing him talk and seeing him smile and listening to him and his friends laugh. It was almost… infectious. But he didn’t let it work. He wasn’t going to smile along with him, laugh along with him. He refused. He couldn’t. 

The day he realized that his feelings towards the other had escalated was a bad day. He looked at his old checklist, furrowing his brow and crossing out one of the items, writing “failed” in frantic lettering next to it. He hadn’t managed to keep himself from falling in love. And it hurt more than anything. He painfully refused to let himself get what he wanted. He wanted the other to hold him in his arms, to kiss him and tell him everything was going to be okay. But he knew that would make him cry. It would make him weak, and sensitive. And he couldn’t have that, not for the life of him. It was oh so hard to ignore his feelings however, when the very boy he loved just had to be around him all the time, inviting him to hang out and telling him that he was fun to be around. 

One night, he asked what was wrong. And he just couldn’t hold it in anymore. He sobbed and told him why he didn’t let himself do anything and how he hated himself for loving him. How he explained how he didn’t even let himself get hugged before feeling the other’s arms wrap around him and hold his head against his chest. He couldn’t help but cry as he told him that he loved him and that everything was gonna be okay and that it was okay to cry and smile and laugh. He said he liked his dimples, he liked the way he always saw his eyes light up when he talked about the intricacies of weapons and how they work, the way he idly flapped his hands when he was in a good mood. He realized who the other reminded him of. Himself, back when he let himself be happy. He couldn’t help but laugh because he was so happy. And the other laughed too. 

He found out through the other why he did the things he did, why he flapped his hands and got overwhelmed at the noise of the plaza and ESPECIALLY splatfests and why he was so interested in weapons. He was curious about the necklace the other liked to chew on, so he got him one too. He told him about the noise-cancelling headphones that people like the two of them liked to use and they worked like a charm. He let him ramble on for hours about the intricacies of weapons, and he waved his arms while he flapped his hands to help him know that it was okay. And it was nice. His friends made passive comments on how he seemed happier and smiled more and they were happily surprised when he agreed to join them for a movie night, laughing along with everybody else, letting the other hold him in his arms in front of everyone, and they didn’t say anything. They didn’t laugh at him, they didn’t make snide comments. 

Things were getting better. Just like old times. 

**Author's Note:**

> guess who's back again with more fucking gorai because i am hyperfixating and have no motivation to make literally anything else  
> what can i say? comfort ships are poggers


End file.
